God pity all whose hearts are anguish-torn
For loss of her, but softest mercies flow
On these, her little ones, who cannot know
What cause their baby voices have to mourn.
In vain their fitful cries pursue her borne
From rooms belovéd, yet content to go,
Sealed in that ivory trance from joy and woe,
Her bridal raiment now serenely worn.
Too young for memory, too young to miss
Her cherishments, and yet it may not be
As they had never felt the mother-kiss,
Nor reached their wandering hands to catch her smile;
But, haply, dreamland keeps some charméd isle
Where love shall brood them safe from storm and sea.